


1980 Jeep CJ-5

by readymachine



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Jeep - Freeform, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 01:25:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4371818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readymachine/pseuds/readymachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is shoulder-deep under the hood of his Jeep with a wrench clenched between his teeth when Lydia pulls into his driveway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1980 Jeep CJ-5

Stiles is shoulder-deep under the hood of his Jeep with a wrench clenched between his teeth when Lydia pulls into his driveway. He glances up as she swings her car into the space next to his, straightening up and wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. He inadvertently smears a line of grease over his eyebrows and Lydia ignores how stupidly attractive it is because this is _Stiles_ and Lydia Martin does _not_ find Stiles attractive.

“What’s wrong with it now?” Lydia asks as she climbs out of her car. She straightens her skirt when she stands, definitely out of habit and not because she wants to look her best for Stiles. He knits his brow at he looks down at the engine, wringing his hands awkwardly.

“Great question,” He responds with a sigh. “She hasn’t been 100% since Mexico and God knows we don’t have the money for a mechanic.”

He wipes his hands on his oil-slicked jeans and dives back in. Lydia watches him work in silence for a moment, smiling as he grunts and swears at the machine in front of him. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as his amber eyes glance around frantically for anything that seems out of place. Lydia finds herself slowly tracing the line of his jaw, counting the burst of freckles across his cheek before she shakes her head and remembers that this is _Stiles_.

“I think you just need to get a new car,” Lydia says, leaning against her passenger door and crossing her legs at the ankle.

“I’m _never_ getting a new car,” Stiles says immediately without looking up, lowering the wrench and catching it on something. “I’ll rebuild this Jeep piece by piece before I get another car.”

The wrench slips out of his hands and Stiles swears loudly as it clatters on the pavement. Lydia chuckles before she can stop herself.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to buy a new Jeep? Especially when you calculate the cost of buying parts that are 35-years-old and—“

“I’m not gonna buy a new car, Lyds,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “I’ve had some great times in this Jeep.”

He slaps a hand on the side of the Jeep for emphasis, causing a sharp rattle to sound from somewhere close to the motor. Stiles frowns and leans over again, bracing his hands on the grill.

“Great times?” Lydia scoffs. “You like remembering that time a deranged serial killer with a fear of water killed a mechanic by lowering your Jeep onto him? Or that time we were racing around trying to save our friends? Or that _other_ time when we were driving away from people who wanted to kill us?”

Stiles smiles up at her, his eyes glowing in the late afternoon sunlight. Lydia feels her heart stutter in her chest before she can stop it.

“Come on, it wasn’t all bad,” He says, his voice strangely stilted. “I’ve had great times in this Jeep.”

“Like _when_?”

She says it too loudly, trying to cover the strange tightness around her lungs. If he notices, Stiles doesn’t show it. He pauses before he answers, standing with his back unnaturally straight and his dirty hands shoved deep into his pockets. A cloud passes over his features. When he speaks, his voice is strained.

“Uh…it was my mom’s Jeep,” He says.

Lydia’s eyes pop in surprise, her red mouth falling open into a small ‘o.’ How had she known Stiles since _third grade_ , yet never known this vital piece of information? It all clicked, suddenly. _This_ is why the Sheriff was so willing to fix the Jeep for his son no matter the cost. _This_ was why Stiles would never part with it. Stiles looks up at her through his long eyelashes, his head lowered.

“You never told me,” She says finally. He nods, the movement barely perceptible.

“I don’t tell anyone,” He says quickly, reaching up and running a dirty hand through his hair (he slicks another line of grease across his skin in the process; Lydia pretends not to notice). “I think Scott might remember. Mom used to drive me to elementary school every morning in this Jeep. You know. Before—”

He breaks off, his gaze dropping to the ground. The words had fallen out of him in a rush and Lydia isn’t sure what to say in the silence. She’s never been good at comfort. But this is _Stiles_ and Lydia knows what to do with Stiles. She steps forward quickly and wraps her arms around his waist, tucking her face into the familiar crook of his neck. He smells like oil and sweat but underneath that are the faint traces of grass and sandalwood that she always associates with him. Stiles responds immediately, his arms circling her shoulders. She thinks she feels him press a kiss against her hair but decides she must have imagined it because this is Stiles and Stiles will never, ever be hers because he loves _Malia_ now and Lydia knows that. For now she lets her eyes close and touches the tip of her nose to the skin under his chin, focusing on the sound of his slow breathing in her ear.

“I saw you for the first time in this Jeep,” Stiles says, so softly that Lydia thinks she might have imagined it. But when she pulls back to look up at him he’s staring right at her, his expression soft and flooded with golden sunlight. Her throat goes dry as she looks at him. He’s so beautiful with his crooked smile and his dirty hair and Lydia is in love with the terrible feeling that blossoms in her chest when she looks at him, even though it hurts.

Reluctantly, she tears away from his grasp and drops her gaze, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

“I got grease all over your clothes,” He says apologetically, leaning against the Jeep.

“This blouse is from last season, anyway,” She lies. She ducks her head under the hood and examines the machinery. “It might be your clutch linkage, you know.”

“You wanna help me fix her?” Stiles asks, sliding next to her with the wrench in his hand.

Lydia glances up at the boy who won’t ever be hers and nods.


End file.
